The reality was a crash course in foreign work visas and my ignorance of the languages—all the languages. So instead, I ate my way through the most mediocre kitchens in cities that had reputable hostels and worked wherever anyone was willing to pay me cash under the table. Still, I saw and experienced a ton.
Sleeping in skeezy dorms and working in even worse kitchens wasn’t what I set out to accomplish, but I wouldn’t trade that year for anything.
When I got home, Dad put up some capital for me to start Foodie. He’d cashed his 401k since he claimed he no longer needed a retirement and told me it was my early inheritance. I used what remained of my bank account and a decent size business loan to fill in the gaps. I’d made money over the weekend, but I had student loans and bills and expenses to pay.
Basically, I couldn’t afford to buy coffee.
And yet, I needed one.
Blame it on poor impulse control.
I grabbed my favorite latte from my favorite local coffee shop and headed into the heart of downtown.
The heat only blazed hotter here. The humidity sat in the air like a wet pillow, trying to suck all the air from my lungs. I wasn’t planning on cooking today, so my breezy, floral maxi dress was supposed to combat the high temps. And yet it stuck to my back and stomach as I tried to pretend I wasn’t melting.
I met with a butcher I thought could help me out with better meats than the grocery store. He was an older guy, built like a truck, and thick, caterpillar-like black eyebrows. I’d read about him in an online forum. A lot of the nearby restaurants used him, so he knew popular cuts of meat and always offered his most interesting proteins to his favorite customers.
Which I planned to be soon enough.
He was polite, even though I had a feeling he was upcharging me. Still, he would be cheaper than the supermarket. And he agreed to do business with me even though I was a tiny account compared to the other venues he worked with.
Next, I stopped at two bakeries, hoping to find one that was willing to partner with me. I wanted to offer something in the way of sweets, but I wasn’t a baker. I mean, I could bake, but it wasn’t my specialty. Plus, I didn’t have the time for it.
My hope was to find a local shop that wanted to team up with me. I would sell their product and advertise their bakery, and in return, they would make enough of a sweet offering for me to stay stocked. And ideally, they would also advertise my food truck in return.
I left a note at one of the bakeries for the owner to call me and was flat out rejected at the other one. Not even a possibility there.
I wanted to shake off the rejection. I knew I was asking a lot. Besides they didn’t know me. I didn’t have a reputation. Or experience. Or any redeeming resume-related qualities. But I wasn’t expecting a decision or anyone to lock in today. I just wanted to start a conversation.
My spirits dipped even further after tracking down the farmer’s market. It was on the edge of downtown where a lot of art galleries and hipster secondhand stores could be found. I had gone there hoping for fresh, organic veggies, but found organic flowers instead.
It was a cool place filled with original art and jewelry. I picked up a pale pink nail polish that was supposed to be better for me than my store-bought ones. But there were no vegetables in sight.
By the time I left, I was cranky and disappointed. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the plaza that I realized I should have asked one of the vendors if they knew where I could go for better produce.
I bounced my forehead on my faded steering wheel and ignored the frustration biting underneath my skin.
This was my hometown, but I had been gone awhile. Culinary Art Institute of Charlotte was in Charlotte, only a few hours’ drive from here. But after school, I’d stayed there with my boyfriend playing house and designing a life I didn’t want.
It had been almost impossible to find an excuse to get home to visit Dad and Vann even though it was so close. It wasn’t until the tail end of my European sabbatical that my dad had emailed about his failing health. I’d finally come home to Durham and came clean to Molly. Dad and Vann got only the dark highlights, but those were enough. This city was the only place for me after I landed back in America.
I didn’t know the city of Durham at all. I knew the familiar childhood haunts around my house and enough about the city to drive to most areas without getting lost. But I didn’t know the ins and outs of the city that you learn when you’re an adult. And I didn’t know all the little secrets that someone in my profession would need to survive.
I parked behind the bike shop and grabbed my notebook. I needed to take inventory before I decided on this week’s menu. Plus, I was hoping my beloved truck and staring down the devil across the street would spur some much needed inspiration.
Poking my head in the bike shop’s door, I smiled at Vann. “Hey. Are you alone today?”
He looked up from the cash register where he sat on a tall stool reading a fitness magazine. “Scott is late, and Maizy couldn’t wait for him to get here, so I’m filling in.”
“That’s good for you,” I told him. “You can see how the rest of us peons live.”
He frowned at me. “I have three employees. I’m not exactly living large.”
I leveled him with a look, “One man’s barely-surviving small business is another man’s kingdom, Vann.”
“Says the small business owner to the other small business owner.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “Yeah, but I don’t even have one employee. I just have people that I manipulate into helping me for free food.”
“I think you need more people.” He made that sound in the back of his throat that I found irritating. “Molly and I aren’t going to always be available.”
I slumped against the doorframe. He was right. “I need more friends.”
He barked out a laugh. “You need a boyfriend. Slave labor is part of the deal.”
He was joking. I knew he was joking. Still, a sick feeling rolled through my stomach, and my heart immediately started punching my chest. “I’d rather figure it out myself. Thanks for the advice, though.”
His face fell at my terse tone, and I saw his regret immediately. “I didn’t mean anything by that—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I cut him off. “I know.”
He made a thoughtful face and shook his head. “Vere, not every guy is a bad seed. You can’t write us all off.”
I cleared my throat and tried to make a joke. “Well, I’m writing you off obviously. You’re my brother. Gross.”
“That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m going to get to work. I’ll see you later.”
“Vera.”
“Oh, Dad wants to take us for tacos later. You in?”
His forehead wrinkled, but he let it go. “When?”
“Um, later? I have some work to do. And he says he’s not in a hurry. Just whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m done about six. I can pick you and Dad up?”
I let out a slow breath, thankful we had moved on from relationship talk. “That works.”
“K, see you then.”
“Bye, Vann. Keep up the good work.”